Release Blitz: By the Fates, Fulfilled by Patricia D. Eddy

I spend my days hiding. Spelled behind a mask. Waiting. Hoping.
While in the dungeon, Raven suffers alone. Chained and tortured, waiting for
Ealasaid to rescue him. To fulfill her destiny and save the world.
Then a man I thought long dead breaks through my defenses.
He knows who I am. He’s seen my true face. Will he expose my secret?
Or is he the one who will finally set me free?

The lone
figure shuddered under the thick wool blanket, and I released my breath. Alive.
At least for tonight. The knot I’d carried in my chest for the past few
hours loosened as I approached his cell. Not entirely, of course. The tether
that bound me to the witch forced me to sense her constant fear. Only when she
slept did I find any relief—and of late, she’d slept little. Perhaps once I
cast the spell back in my chamber, I’d earn a few hours of peace.

Peace?
You’re trapped as much as this man is. I cursed under my breath. The long days
suffocating under the weight of my secret were taking their toll. I longed to
breathe free air, but until we found a way to escape Eideard’s spells, I had to
maintain my disguise lest the emaciated and broken man in the cell before me
gained a companion. The dungeon walls pressed in on me. Most of the room was
underground, keeping the temperature near freezing. Only the top few feet of the
room peeked above the ground, a tiny window high on the wall providing a
torturous glimpse of freedom so far from our reach.

Tufts of
matted black hair stuck up from the prisoner’s cocoon. A thick chain rattled as
he shivered. Why Eideard insisted on the manacle—running from the man’s ankle
to a hasp low on the wall—I could not fathom. The binding spell, the
starvation, and the beatings ensured he’d never escape. Not without some sort
of miracle.

“Delphine?
You’re relieved.”

The deep
voice startled me. I nearly dropped the cup of water and the bowl of porridge I
carried on a well-worn tray. The scents of cedar and fresh rain announced his
presence behind me and I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief moment, not wanting
to see him as he was now. After a breath, I found my voice.

“Shortly.
I’ve brought the prisoner’s meal. You’ve time for a mug of kahve if you wish.”
I turned, biting my lower lip to quell the tremble. Before…the human and
I had been close, or we’d tried to be. I’d always found Conall to be a kind and
interesting man—one I wanted to know better. Now, victim to the last remaining snáthaid,
a stranger stood before me.

We hadn’t
known what the snáthaid could do. How if left in a person’s body, it
would burrow deeper, the magic eating away at the soul until only an empty
shell remained, ready to be molded like clay. King Conall had died more than
six months ago, and Eideard—along with his personal mage, Brandanna—had
sculpted him into Lachlan, a low-level guard loyal to Clan Kendrick. After the
witch’s escape, Eideard assigned Lachlan to the night watch to torture the lone
prisoner even further.

“I…” He glanced towards the stone steps that
led out of the underground dungeon. “I do not like kahve.”

“You had a
mug with you last week.” My fingers started to itch and the dull throbs of a
headache bloomed behind my eyes. I couldn’t hold onto my spell much
longer—another half an hour at most. “No matter. Take this morning’s tray back
to the kitchens. Eideard may not care if the prisoner sleeps in rat shite, but
I refuse to spend my days watching the disgusting things crawl all over him.”

I opened
the cell and then gestured to the untouched meal. “Go on.” Even in my lowly
position—barely a member of the Guarda, more of a glorified kitchen wench—I
outranked Lachlan. Everyone did. From the king to the lowest foot soldier. At
least he had no memory of his former station. Small blessings, I supposed.

Uncertainty
pinched his dark brows, but he wouldn’t ignore a direct order. As he rose, his
hands shook, and his gaze pleaded with me before he turned on his heel and
trudged up the steps.

I couldn’t
spare the time to wonder why he feared leaving the dungeon. Moving quickly, I
dropped to one knee and pulled the blanket away from the warlock’s face. He
cringed and shrank further into the corner. “N-no.”

“Shh. It’s
only me.” I rested my palm on his chest, each rib sharp under his thin shirt.
“You must eat.”

“Let m-me
d-die.” His eyes fluttered closed. Blue veins contrasted starkly against skin
that hadn’t seen the sun in months. With more speed than I thought him capable
of, he lunged for the athame at my waist. Cursing, I leapt back.

“You are
not worth the wrath I would earn if you died, warlock.” I spat at his bare
feet, drew my athame, and pressed the blade to his throat in case Lachlan came
back. Unable to hold his head up, the warlock sagged forward as hoarse sobs
wracked his body. I should never have let him go this long without the respite
from the Mists. I knew better, but the witch had been so insistent. “You will
stay alive for as long as the king wishes. This I promise you.”

“Please…”

The anguish
in his voice threatened my tenuous control.
I glanced over my shoulder. We were still alone. I let my spell slip
away for a moment, and rather than a middle-aged, stout devil woman with no
hair, yellow teeth, and a thick middle, I stood before the prisoner in my true
form. Tall, with silver hair past my shoulders, and barely enough bulk to hold
my corset up, my familiar face rallied him, though only slightly.

“I can give
you peace, for a day or two. But only if you eat.” Thankful Lachlan was taking
his time, I slid the athame into its holster and grabbed the prisoner’s arms so
I could gently lower him to the floor. My whispered words only seemed to drive
him further into despair. “As long as she lives, she will never stop
searching. She’ll find a way.”

“Or
die…trying.” As the man slumped against the wall, his dark lashes glistened
with spilled tears in the torchlight, and I swore under my breath as I noted
how sunken his cheeks had become. “Help me…protect her. Kill me.”

Six
hopeless months ago, I’d made my vow. How much longer could I stand to watch
him suffer? “You are the only reason she lives.” I cupped his chin and forced
his head up. “The full moon will be here soon. I’ll be able to get a message to
her then. Eat, so I can give you respite.”

I pressed a
spoonful of porridge against his lips and thanked the Fates when he accepted
the offering. As he ate, I told him how angry the corrupt king had been the
last time a contingent of his men had come close to finding Ealasaid but had
been cut down by the witch’s power. Eideard had punched one of the stone walls
so hard, he’d broken four bones in his hand. “The idiot forgot he’d sent
Brandanna to Lobhdain the previous night. He had to suffer with those shattered
bones for a full day.”

Angry
shouts echoed from the main floor, but I ignored them in favor of holding the
cup of water to his lips. “You will not last long in the Mists this time. You must
eat more.”

The sound
that escaped his throat confused me until I saw his chest shake. Laughter? “You
try…that shite. Eideard…has them put lye in it.”

“Fates be
damned.” I raised the bowl to my nose, sniffed, and fought not to retch. It had
never occurred to me that the king would sink that low. “When next you see me,
I’ll have a better meal for you.”

As I
wrapped the blankets around him, he forced his eyes open. “Thank you.”

With my
hand on his cheek, I cast the spell that would send him into a type of
hibernation. Nightmares plagued him there, in a realm created by ancient magic,
but at least the cocoon of the Mists spared his body the pain of so many hours
trapped in a frigid cell with an icy chain around his ankle.

With a
final moan, he succumbed to the tug of the devil magic, and the lines around
his eyes and lips relaxed. The magic drained me further, and I shivered. “On my
life, I will find a way to free you. Sleep now, Raven, and try to dream of
Ealasaid.”

***

My fingers
shook as I shut the cell door, and my vision wavered as I reclaimed my
disguise.

“Delphine?”

Lachlan’s
voice startled me, and I almost lost hold of the spell. I wrestled for control
and cleared my throat twice before I risked speech.

“Aye. I’ve
sent the warlock into the Mists for the night. He’s all yours.” I brushed past
Lachlan, but the scent of blood caught my attention. With my foot on the first
stair, I cast a brief glance at the former king. He held a crimson-stained
handkerchief to his swollen lip. “What happened?”

Tripped, my
arse. Lachlan braced himself against the wall, his breath stuttered at the end
of his inhalation, and his left eye bore a reddish tinge that would likely turn
black and blue by the end of his shift.

“Sit.” I
offered him a clean handkerchief. When he waved me off, I gave him my best
glare. “If you bleed all over your uniform, you’ll earn more of the captain’s
ire. And you certainly don’t want to pass out during your watch.”

He didn’t
so much sit as collapse into the metal chair.
The occasional hiss escaped his lips as I staunched the blood and passed
a quick cooling spell over his swollen cheek, his jaw, and his ribs. “Nothing
broken?” My magic faltered as I met Lachlan’s gaze, and I struggled not to show
him my true form.

He frowned,
shifted to one side, then back again. “No. Not this time.” His last words
almost disappeared into his hands as he scrubbed his face. “Leave me. Please.”

Regret
twisted like a knife deep into my gut as he struggled to straighten his
shoulders. If I thought I could maintain my spell any longer, I’d offer to stay
with him, but my skin had already started to crawl with the sensation of a
thousand spiders. With the moon full, the mage would be gone, renewing the
spells that surrounded the castle. If I could break into her rooms, perhaps I
could find a way to escape the dampening field that kept me—and Raven—trapped
here.

“I’ll
relieve you a bit early tomorrow. Good night, Lachlan.”

Halfway up
the stairs, his words followed me. “That’s not my name.”

I almost
rushed back to him, hoping I’d find some part of the former king. But he’d
relieved me every day for the past month and I’d never seen a single spark of
recognition. I couldn’t risk the time or the danger. No. King Conall was dead.
Killed by the snáthaid six long months ago. No amount of wishing could
change that.

“Be well,
my friend,” I whispered as I pushed through the scarred wooden door that sealed
the dungeon off from the rest of the castle. “As well as you can be.”

Patricia D. Eddy lives in many worlds. Witches, vampires,
and shifters inhabit one of them, military men and women fill another, with
sexy Doms and strong subs carving out the final slice of her literary universe.
She admits to eleven novels (though there are at least five unfinished drafts
on her desk right now), all while working a full-time job, running
half-marathons, and catering to the every whim of her three cats. Despite this
whirlwind, she still finds time to binge watch Doctor Who all of the Netflix
Marvel shows, and most recently, The Handmaid’s Tale. Oh, and she hopes to one
day be able to say that she plays the guitar. Right now, she mostly tortures
the strings until they make noise.